


5 times Betty isn't on her own and 1 time Jughead isn't either

by catthecoder



Series: foolish hearts [4]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, FBI Agent Betty Cooper, Forbidden Love, Opposites Attract, Pre-Relationship, Secrets, Slow Burn, thief Jughead Jones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:27:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22333372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catthecoder/pseuds/catthecoder
Summary: Picking herself up after slipping up is something Betty Cooper knows how to do - just avoid thinking about the situation and dive head-first into work. But that task turns out to be rather difficult this time around, since cutting Jughead off from her professional life is not an option she is allowed to entertain; after all, she should be working on figuring out a way how to put him behind bars.Luckily,her foolish heart supplies,it just so happens that the best way to do that would be by figuring out what is going on with him.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Series: foolish hearts [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1452949
Comments: 61
Kudos: 97





	5 times Betty isn't on her own and 1 time Jughead isn't either

**Author's Note:**

> hey! so, a slight (almost three-month long) delay has happened, but i am _not_ abandoning this story and so here we are! i'm not going to keep you for diving in any longer, just know that the story is un-betad (as always) and i tried my best to catch all the mistakes, but i profoundly apologise for any that might have slipped my attention.
> 
> and, a little disclaimer: this is a work of fiction and i am well-aware that things probably wouldn't work the way i have described them, so please, don't think that this is how the real world works, alright?
> 
> happy reading! 💕
> 
> (also, i have changed my username here to match my tumblr url, so don't worry, it is still me)

**_1_ **

There’s a steaming cup of green tea and a sickeningly sweet latte placed in the cup holders of Betty’s car. Ever since she woke up, with a headache that could kill and a mood that is barely above the level of absolute zero, she has been counting down seconds until she could finally relax and indulge herself with her favourite drink, hoping that it would lessen the throbbing in her head at least a bit.

She tried to pretend - for her own sanity - that she has no idea what is causing those pains, but denial will only get you so far in the life and Betty is slowly starting to believe that she has reached its maximum potential. She would love nothing more but to be able to completely ignore all of those heart wrenching feelings, but just as she can’t seem to erase from her mind the memory of the last Friday night, of how she put herself out there and risked everything, just like that she can’t erase the pain that now fills her up as she has to bear the fallout of her decisions.

 _What fallout?_ her mind supplies bitterly. _It’s not like anything has happened._

And it is true - nothing happened.

So, why does it feel like her heart has been shattered into a million of pieces, why does it hurt so bad?

In hindsight, she knows that she should have known better than to trust a man that’s been doing nothing but lying his whole life. She’s a FBI agent, where was her sanity and reason as she let him slip past her walls? Where was her common sense as she recklessly indulged herself in the long phone calls, as her dreams about him stopped featuring silver cuffs hanging from his wrists and instead showed those hands touching her gently, his fingers running along the edges of her body, caressing, worshipping. 

In hindsight, she knows what a terrible mistake she has made and that this, now, is just the universe’s way of punishing her. For being reckless, for disobeying, for acting naïvely. 

She parks her car nearby Archie’s building and quickly shoots him a message that she has arrived. In an attempt to distract herself during the weekend, she has picked up the first case from the heap that has piled up on her coffee table and talked Archie into spending the day with her in the car as she followed up on a lead.

Her fingers drum on the steering wheel to the rhythm of a song coming of the radio, one that she pushed to almost the lowest possible volume as she got into the car this morning, mostly due to the headache that has been building at the back of her head, but also because of the cheesy lyrics that the singer repeatedly screamed through her speakers. It made her stomach retch and twirl in pain as memories of Jughead reappeared in her mind.

She picks up her cup of tea and as she finally takes the first sip, she lets her eyes roam over the street, scanning her surroundings carefully. There is no hidden meaning or agenda behind it (she isn’t looking for anybody engaging in shady activities or anything like that); it just simply offers a sense of routine and familiarity and that’s something she needs right now like air. Her work always had the ability to keep her both grounded and afloat.

The street isn’t busy perse, but it isn’t dead either. There’s an older man walking his tiny and overly excited puppy, a young woman on her morning run, a businessman focused solely on something on his phone passing a couple seated on a bench, seemingly so deep in their conversation that had the world stopped existing, they might not even notice. Betty can’t help but wonder; are they happy? Or do they feel the same pain as lingers in her, have their hearts ever been broken in ways she could understand?

She slowly peels her eyes away from the people as the uninvited pain and dark thoughts creep into her mind and instead, she takes in the street as a whole. For a Monday morning, there’s barely any traffic - scratch that, there are barely any cars parked along the length of the street.

Archie’s car is parked a few spots down the road, a bright red car that looks like it has been taken straight from 1950’s is parked across the street and a polished black car a bit further up behind it. 

In a city like New York, where there are almost as many cars as there are people, seeing something as mundane as a black car should not make her stop or think twice (or even once for that matter). And normally, it wouldn’t have had, if only a familiar feeling hadn’t washed over her as her eyes locked on the car. It takes her a second, but she recognises it eventually - who wouldn’t have, especially after seeing it in their rearview mirror dozens of times?

Her brows furrow and she hastily returns her tea to the cup holder, spilling a bit of the hot liquid on herself in the process. It burns at her skin, so she quickly wipes the back of her hand to her shirt while she works on unfastening her belt. There is a speech coming together in her mind, one that is full of swear words and insults, that she is going to give him (or maybe she won’t even bother with anything like that and just arrest him straight away), but before she has a chance to storm over there angrily, the passenger door of her car opens and a person drops onto the seat next to her.

And that person isn’t sporting a fiery mess of hair on their head, or Archie’s typical “undercover” outfit (or that is the excuse he uses to talk Betty into letting him wear gym shorts and a hoodie while they are on the clock). Instead, what plops into the seat next to her with a heavy exhale could only be described as a pile of darkness.

Betty doesn’t need to lift his baseball cap to know who is hidden under that crappy disguise and a part of her can’t help but wonder when had her life gotten to that point.

“What do you want, Fangs?” she asks as she pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Good morning to you too, agent,” he answers. There’s a certain cheeriness to his voice, but it isn’t full of the teasing tone she is used to hearing from him - this time, there’s something darker, something more sinister hidden underneath.

The thought of that sends a shiver down Betty’s spine.

“I’m really not in the mood today,” she just shakes her head. She doesn’t turn to face him, instead forces her eyes to watch the entrance to Archie’s building. “Plus, my partner is about to walk out of that building at any moment now and I can’t see any scenario in which that will end well for you.”

Fangs snickers next to her. “Don’t worry, we’ve got a couple of minutes,” he says.

“What -” Betty starts to ask, but she stops herself mid-question - does she really want to know? “That doesn’t mean that I won’t arrest you.”

“I know,” Fangs hums. “I’m willing to take my chances.”

Betty sighs and finally turns to look at him. “Just tell me what you want and then pray that I’ll change my mind about arresting you.”

She doesn’t mean it, not really - even though she shouldn’t have, she still has somehow grown to quite like the man. Certainly more than his partner in crime, the one who shall not be named if she wishes to keep her posture and sanity. But, it is a good practise to scare criminals by acting tougher than she really is and if the way Fangs’ mouth tightens into a straight line is anything to go by, she is doing a great job.

He nods lightly before he speaks up. “I am here because of Jughead.”

And those six words are enough for Betty to know that she doesn’t want to hear whatever he is about to say next.

“Well, then you should get going,” she says, not letting him get any further. The words might leave her lips quickly, but they carry a certain finality.

A certain finality that flies completely above Fangs’ head. “I can’t,” he says resolutely. “Not until you hear what I have to say.”

Betty sighs heavily - her headache is worsening and she wants nothing but to finish drinking her cup of tea in silence and solitude. “If it was that important, he would have come and said it himself instead of sending you as a messenger boy.”

“He didn’t send me as a messenger boy,” Fangs quickly defends himself, but it only makes Betty scoff.

“No? Then why are you here, making apologies for him?” she asks. Her tone is getting higher with every word, the boiling rage pushing it up and up. “Does he have no balls to face me, just like he didn’t have on Friday? Has he realised his fuck up and knows that if he shows up anywhere near me again, I won’t hesitate to arrest him?”

She may be spilling those words in anger, but there is a hint of truth behind them - after all, she had a lot of time to think this weekend. And if there is one thing she has learnt, it is that next time, there won’t be any flirting or hesitation, that next time, his sweet promises won’t work on her. 

She acted foolishly and recklessly when she called him to help her with the case she was stuck on - when they met up in the abandoned dockyard for the first time face-to-face. She acted even more foolishly when they bumped into each other in the gallery - unlike the last time, she had literally no reason to not arrest him. But for some reason, she didn’t do that. Instead, she let herself get lost herself in his touch, in the way his palm lingered on her back and the way his breath tickled her on her cheeks. 

The third time’s a charm, they say. And it is going to be that way for her - because, when, _not if, but when_ , that time rolls around, there will be nothing to distract or detract her; there will be nothing to stop her from finally bringing him to the justice he deserves.

“It’s not like that,” Fangs shakes his head. He reaches to the pocket of his jacket and Betty’s mind instantly tries to come up with the quickest way how to reach into the glovebox in front of Fang’s knees, where she has thrown her gun - but by the time she can come up with something that somewhat resembles a plan, Fangs’ hand is back out and there is nothing dangerous in it.

No, it’s just a folded piece of paper.

He runs his fingers against its edges and presses harder on the folded part. His brows furrow and Betty can’t help but to think that whatever is on that piece of paper must be the most horrible thing on this planet, if it has somehow earned the looks that Fangs is sending its way.

“What’s that?” Betty asks, unable to stop her curiosity.

“Have you known that Jughead’s parents always wanted him to join the Serpents?” Fangs asks instead of answering her question.

“I didn’t,” she shakes her head. She knows that Jughead has a rather rocky relationship with his parents and that he hates being associated with them more than anything - but she didn’t know that they have tried to recruit him. 

“Yeah,” Fangs chuckles lightly. He looks like he’s remembering a joke and Betty almost asks him about it - but the fear of the punchline being less of a line and more of a punch stops her. “They’ve become obsessed with the idea of Jughead taking over the family legacy, of following in their footsteps. And Jughead made it his life mission to never do that - to never stoop to their level.”

A silence that fills the car is full of dread and horror. Betty doesn’t want to think about what it implies, she really doesn’t want to let her thoughts wander into the dark places.

She clears her throat. “Why are you telling me that?” she asks. Her voice is strained and hardly sounds anything like her, but it is coming out of her mouth, so it must belong to her, right?

“Because, I need you to understand that there is no way Jughead would agree to work for his parents willingly.”

Fangs doesn’t have to explain the hidden meaning behind his words - Betty has learnt how to read between the lines a long time ago.

“But he still did,” she says, the words heavy on her lips.

Fangs’ gaze falls to the folded piece of paper in his hand, avoiding her stare, but that in itself is enough of an answer.

“He did it to protect the ones he cares about,” Fangs murmurs. “The one he cares about.”

 _He means you, you are the one he cares about, he wouldn’t be here otherwise_ , a voice in her mind supplies and Betty shuts her eyes tightly as she tries to stifle it out, but it doesn’t leave, instead just replays the words on loop. _You are the one he care about_.

“Then he isn’t as smart as I gave him credit for,” she pushes out bitterly. “He shouldn’t care about people who can’t protect themselves.”

The words are harsh and they sting, not just on her tongue and lips, but also in her heart. _Why can’t she stop herself from hurting, why can’t she stop herself from hurting?_

“I won’t argue with that,” Fangs says slowly. “But that’s how life goes - we can’t pick the people who matter to us.”

Betty just swallows, her eyes still closed, but even then, she can imagine the soft expression that surely is on Fangs’ face right now, one that is definitely full of pity and maybe some confusion thrown in the mix. Or maybe, that’s just her foolishness thinking and if she opened her eyes, she would be met with nothing but anger and rage, because, at the end of the day, it was apparently her who has cost Fangs his friend.

“I’m not blaming anybody but his parents - Jughead has been running on borrowed time for years now and his luck was bound to run out at some point,” Fangs says. “But what’s important is-”

There’s a beeping of an alarm that interrupts his sentence. The sound cuts through the thick tension like a knife, so sharp and painful that Betty winces at her spot.

“Look, just please know that Jughead did what he had to do and we’ll do anything to get him out of that shit,” Fangs says. The emotions that has ruled the tone of his voice are replaced by cold distance and what he was about to say before getting interrupted long forgotten, the deep admissions replaced by rushed facts.

Betty’s eyes are still closed, but it is enough for her to hear shuffling and moving in the passenger seat to know that Fangs is about to leave.

“I’ll keep you in loop if we find something,” he says. 

_No_ , she wants to say. She wants to scream at him to not do that, to not give her any information on Jughead’s plans or whereabouts, because there’s nothing she can do with it. She can’t sacrifice her integrity for that man, _not again_. Not after she had went on a limb for him, after she had put her trust in him and he has stomped all over it like it meant nothing.

Even if what Fangs is saying is true, even if there were external circumstances that prevented him from coming, that still doesn’t excuse him. That still isn’t enough for Betty to just move on.

She might be a forgiveful type, but she definitely isn’t a forgetful one.

But yet, the declination gets stuck at the back of her throat and instead, other words fight their way out. “Please, do.”

Fangs hums. Door opens and there’s another movement as the man exists the car. “See you around, agent,” he says.

He shuts the door behind with a loud thud, leaving Betty alone with the mess that are her feelings and all this new information she doesn’t quite know how to process.

But when she opens her eyes, she finds out that she isn’t quite as alone as she had expected to be; on the passenger’s seat lies a folded piece of paper. It is the same one Fangs has been playing with before, the same one that seemed to bring him inexplicable sadness and grief.

Hesitantly, she reaches for it, only then noticing the slight tremble of her fingers. 

She places her hand against the steering wheel, steadying them as she opens up the paper.

Turns out, it is not just a regular paper but a photo.

It takes her eyes a moment to focus on it fully, to make out shapes from the blurry mess of browns and whites - but once she does, the piece of paper slips through her fingers and falls into her lap.

The tremble is back and this time, it is too strong to be stopped by leaning her hands casually against a steady surface. She grips on the wheel tightly, until her knuckles turn white and instead of hands, her whole world shakes.

Her heart is in her throat and she can barely breathe, so she quickly leans forward, her forehead hitting the top of the steering wheel. 

She doesn’t need Fangs to come back and explain what that photo means as a picture on its own can speak thousands of words.

And this one in particular, for sure has millions of them.

Slowly, she picks it up again.

The first thing she notices is the look of pure happiness on their faces; it radiates off them, like heat would off the Sun. Then, it is the closeness and peacefulness of their postures; had she been showed this photo, she would describe the pair as close friends, as lovers - there is something incredibly intimate about the look they share, about the way their bodies gravitate towards the other. 

_You need to understand that he would never agree to work his parents willingly._

_He did it to protect the one he cares about._

Betty’s heart stops for a moment and she’s pretty sure that it would have stayed that way, if only a loud series of knocks on her window hadn’t startled her.

Her head shoots up and she’s met with Archie’s wide smile. She isn’t quite sure if she has managed to return it, but her friend doesn’t seem to pick up on her hesitation as he quickly heads towards the passenger door.

Betty takes one last look at the photo in her hand before stashing it into the pocket of her jacket, hiding it from Archie’s prying eyes.

The door opens and Archie drops to the seat. “You won’t believe the call I just had,” he says without a greeting. “Oh, have you brought me coffee? You’re an angel.” 

Betty nods, unsure of what her voice would sound like had she attempted to answer. She can’t even look at her friend, too afraid that her expression would give away her thoughts.

So, instead she just turns the keys in ignition and starts to drive.

Archie blabbers about the call that he has just finished, an apology for it causing him to be late popping up at some point during his word vomit, but Betty can’t focus enough on his voice to actually process his words. 

She just drives and tries to not think about what Fangs’ words and that photo imply, she tries really hard to ignore the fact that Jughead Jones apparently cares about her enough to sacrifice his values and morals, to give in to something he has been fighting his whole life.

She tries really hard to ignore that fact.

(She fails horribly.)

  
  


**_2_ **

Thankfully, over the course of the following days, Betty has practically no time to think about her meeting with Fangs as apparently, it is a high season for crime and the pile of cases that are begging for her attention and desperately need solving is taller than ever before. Her life becomes an endless cycle of working from sunrise till sunset, her only socialising in a form of letting Archie drag her to gym every second day or so, when she starts acting like _annoying little baby by overthinking every fact that comes hew way_ (his words, not hers) and then basically falling asleep as soon as her heads hits a pillow.

And today is shaping up to be no different from the routine she has fallen into - it is just eight o'clock and she has already been working for solid two hours by the time Veronica arrives to work and instead of going to her lab, she pulls up a chair to Betty’s desk and drops into it with a heavy sigh.

There are two cups from the fancy place she frequents in her hands and she pushes one of them in Betty’s direction. 

“Do you have five minutes to spare while you drink your leafy water to chat with your friend or do I need to schedule an appointment?” she asks and although her voice is light and teasing, Betty feels guilt creep up on her instantly.

She clicks her pen and closes the file that she was just going through, pushing it away to make a metaphorical space for Veronica. “I always have time for you,” Betty says with a soft smile.

“Could have fooled me,” Veronica says. Her tone isn’t bitter or accusatory, but it sting nonetheless. 

“V, I’m so sorry,” Betty apologises immediately. “There’s just been a lot on my plate recently.”

Veronica gives her an earnest smile, one that sends waves of warmth to Betty, filling her up with soft happiness. She has to admit - she has missed her friend dearly and diving into work might be a quite effective coping mechanism for a lot of shit, but it should never be done on expanse of pushing friends away.

“I understand,” Veronica hums. “Life has been pretty shitty to me too lately.”

Betty raises an eyebrow at her friend from behind the cup of tea she has brought her. “Your father?” she asks.

“Yes, my dear daddy is apparently getting out and as much as I am hellbent on not letting that happen, I’m slowly starting to lose hope,” Veronica sighs.

She leans back in her chair and closes her eyes and Betty uses that moment to take a proper look at her friend - although hidden under a layer of perfectly blended makeup, the dark circles under her eyes still bleed through; her hair isn’t styled in the shiny uniformed waves as usually but instead in a sort of messy (and sort of still organised) half-up-do; even her clothes seem to be less fancy and flashy as usual, as if there wasn’t enough strength left in her to properly deal with picking out outfits. Betty relates to that, although in her case it means that she keeps switching between the same three sweaters, while in Veronica’s it insinuates that she spends 10 minutes on her outfit instead of 20.

“How are you dealing with that?” Betty asks softly. She knows Veronica is strong and there isn’t much that can bring her down - but she also knows that sometimes, she really needs a friend.

“I may have persuaded the guy who’s the lead on his case to let me see their files,” Veronica admits with a soft sigh. “Though I doubt I’ll find anything they have missed, but I’d be damned if I didn’t try everything.”

“Should I even ask about your persuasion techniques or would I rather stay blissfully oblivious?” Betty asks.

Veronica opens one of her eyes and shoots a nasty look her way, but laughter tumbles off her lips, one that warms Betty up on the inside once again. “Don’t worry, I didn’t just sleep with him to get the information,” Veronica says as she closes her eye back. “I filled out all documents and applications necessary.”

Betty hums approvingly and is about to praise her friend for doing this the proper way, but she doesn’t even get to open her mouth before Veronica speaks again.

“But, I also slept with him, so, make out of that whatever you want,” she shrugs.

“And here I was, about to congratulate you on not mixing business with pleasure,” Betty shakes her head. Once Veronica gets something to her head, neither immovable object nor unstoppable force would be enough to prevent her from achieving her goals.

“Oh, shut up,” Veronica says. “Reggie is a nice guy. We went out a couple of times and he was always the perfect gentleman, so don’t you even think about judging me.”

Betty lifts her hand up defensively, even though Veronica can’t see her. “Wouldn’t dare to,” she says with a soft laugh. There’s a moment of silence that follows and Betty uses it to backtrack through their conversation. 

She licks her lips before speaking, but apart from that short moment of hesitation, she doesn’t really think about what she is about to say, the words coming naturally. “You know, if you want, I can always help you look through the files.”

Veronica’s eyes snap open at the offer, her pupils dilated as they find Betty’s. “I couldn’t ask that from you, B,” she shakes her head. “You already have so much work, I’d hate to burden you with more.”

Betty scoffs and there’s an eyeroll that’s begging to be let out, but she holds it back. “Nonsense - you could never burden me,” she says honestly. “Let me make up being a bad friend - come over on Friday, we’ll order pizza, open a bottle of wine and get a crack on those files. It’ll be fun.”

Veronica’s brows furrow slightly. “You know, you and I have very different definitions of fun,” she says. “But if you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate the help,” she adds before Betty has a chance to come up with another argument.

She leans forward and takes Veronica’s hand into hers, squeezing her gently. “I’d love nothing more, V.”

“Thank you,” Veronica says, her voice low and soft. “I doubt we will find anything but I really appreciate your help.”

“Any time.”

Betty settles into her chair a bit more comfortably after that, excited at the prospect of spending an evening with her friend. _Gosh_ , she can’t even remember the last time she was this excited about something as the last handful of days have been dressed in colours of solitude and routine. It is nice to feel this bubbling feeling in her chest again, this warmth spreading through her body; it is nice to feel it once again after -

_Oh, no, don’t go there._

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Veronica says then. There’s a completely new energy to both her voice and movements, as if the sorrow conversation hadn’t just taken place. 

She picks up her purse from the floor and starts rummaging in it as if her life depended on it. “I chatted a bit with Ethel, down at the reception and I mentioned I was about to go see you and she gave me this.” 

With those words, Veronica pulls out a stark white envelope from her purse and hands it to Betty.

“What is it?” she asks before even starting to inspect the piece of a paper in her hand.

“I have no idea and neither did she,” Veronica shrugs. “But apparently it arrived yesterday with the rest of the post and she has been meaning to stop you at some point or make a trip up here, so I offered to deliver it for her.”

Betty watches her friend as she explains animatedly how exactly she came to possess a letter addressed to her and only after Veronica is done, Betty lets her eyes drift down to examine the envelope. There’s nothing special about it - it’s white, clean and new. Her name along with the Bureau's address is written on the front side in block letters, but the return address is missing. A single stamp is glued in the right upper corner, the american flag floating frozen in the picture.

“Why would anybody send me something here?” she wonders out loud.

“I have no idea,” Veronica supplies. “Are you going to open it?”

Betty considers shaking her head and just trashing it for a moment - it is probably just some sort of a prank that some stupid kids pulled and she has no interest in being the punchline to a joke. But, a small spark of curiosity is enough to persuade her to not do that. “Yeah,” she nods as her fingers tear the white paper open.

“So? What’s inside?” Veronica asks eagerly. She leans closer, hoping to be able to see the contents, so Betty quickly pulls out the contents make it easier for both of them to take a look.

It contains just one piece of paper, that has probably been ripped out of a notepad of sorts, if the light blue lines and the frayed edge are anything to judge by. The person has folded it in half to fit into the envelope, so Betty quickly pushes the top part up, revealing the contents of the page.

In front of her are no words or note, just a simple pencil sketch of a building.

“What’s that?” Veronica ask, clearly just as confused as Betty.

“I have no idea,” Betty shakes her head. 

She traces the lines of the drawing, trying to catch a glimpse of a secret message or meaning, but everything she tries leads her to nothing but dead ends. 

The building is massive and clearly meant to be the centerpiece, the eye-catcher. If Betty had to make a guess, she would say that it has a very Renaissance feel to it, maybe even Neo-renaissance. There is a certain hint of familiarity hidden in the brick facade and the endless rows of windows that fade into the nothingness as the paper ends, but she can’t quite put her finger on what it is. 

So, instead of the centerpiece, she focuses on the peripherals of the composition. The sky is void of pretty much anything, the left side, where the building doesn’t just fade off into nothingness is framed by another building. There are cars rushing in the front, blurred as if they were captured on a camera with a low shutter speed set. And people - there’s handful of them, all of them barely more than skinny black figures hunched forward. Their bodies are weirdly shaped, bending in slightly inhumanly ways, reminding Betty more of snakes than anything with a backbone or a proper skeleton; it causes the word _sinister_ to linger at the tip of Betty’s tongue, but she ignores it and just swallows as she returns her attention to the building.

“I feel like I’ve seen the building before,” Veronica ponders out loud.

“Me too,” Betty sighs. “It’s definitely in New York, but where? This city is huge.”

“Try running it through the system, maybe the image recognition will pick up on something,” Veronica suggests.

Betty nods as she is already picking up her phone to take a picture of the drawing. She quickly uploads it to their system and cross-references it with buildings of New York. It doesn’t take long before the computer starts doing its job and she can focus back on the paper.

“You should probably run it for prints,” Betty suggests then. She looks at the drawing again and her eyes linger on something that looks vaguely as a part of cup ring. It’s barely there, just a small bit in the right upper corner, but the longer she stares at it, the more she is sure that at some point, somebody (probably the person who drew the picture) placed a cup on it. She brings the paper up to her nose and sniffs it - a faint scent of coffee tingles her nostrils.

“Will do,” Veronica agrees. “And I can also try to get something from that stain, what is it, coffee?”

“Yeah,” Betty hums as she places the paper back down. To her surprise, the drawing is still completely the same, not changing a bit while she wasn’t let it out of her gaze.

The computer dings with an answer, pulling both of their gazes to the screen.

There’s the tell-tale green box blinking in the middle of screen and Betty doesn’t even read the words _Match found_ before opening the results.

 _Oh, so that’s why the building looked so familiar_ , she thinks the file pops open on her screen.

“Is that -” Veronica starts.

“- the Federal Reserve? Yeah,” Betty finishes for her. 

A part of her feels stupid for not realising it - Federal Reserve Bank is one of the most important New York’s landmarks - how has she not seen the resemblance immediately? She goes back to the drawing, lifting it up until it is side-by-side with the photo of the Federal Reserve from their archive. It seems pretty similar, but next to each other, certain differences certainly pop up. Not big enough for the computer to not make the connection, but big enough to throw her off the track. 

It’s in the details like windows and the bricks - while on the building, every component is perfect, matching the ones around it in shape, size and colour, the drawing is a lot messier in that aspect. The bricks aren’t uniform in any sense of word, their lengths varying randomly, with every third or fourth coloured in. And the windows - they may be drawn more regularly, but still, compared to the real building, whose entire walls are basically covered in them, on the drawing they are pretty sparse, with various numbers in different rows.

Apart from being a famous landmark, the Federal Reserve also belongs among the most secure places in the world and probably the most secure one in New York. And it has a good reason to be - its vault holds more gold than Betty can even start to wrap her head around; more than probably any person can wrap their head around. 

She can imagine a lot of thieves dream about robbing that place, about walking out alive and with bags overflowing with gold. But there is a fairly good reason why the place is considered the most secure building in New York and that crushes most of those dreams into nothing but dust.

So, why would somebody send her a drawing of that building?

Is this some sort of a sick game to the person, an attempt to throw the FBI off balance? A way to laugh into their faces when they rob the bank?

Do they really think that a plan like that is going to work?

That they are going to be able to break in and make it out as free men? And especially after giving heads-up to FBI?

“Do you think that somebody is planning to rob it?” Veronica asks quietly, her thought process probably similar to Betty’s.

“I’m not ruling out the possibility,” Betty admits. “But why send a warning? And why to me?”

Veronica just shrugs her shoulders - clearly, she is no wiser than Betty. “I’m going to see what I can find, alright? I’ll stop by later,” she says.

Betty just nods and takes one last lingering look at the drawing before folding it back in a half and placing it into the envelope. She hands it over to Veronica who just gives her a tight-lipped smile before picking up her half-full cup of coffee and waving goodbye.

Betty watches her friend make her way through the office to the elevators, disappearing behind the corner. Her gaze linger at that spot for a long time after Veronica is gone, but where her eyes stay still, her thoughts refuse to do that. They run around her mind frantically, spinning wheels and coming up with theories left and right, each one more out there than the previous.

Of course, the mysterious letter is all she can think about - how could she focus on anything else now? 

There are way too many questions and not nearly enough answers.

If they really are right and somebody has sent this as a warning before robbery - _just why_? Why would any sane robber (not that robbers are usually particularly sane) sabotage their plan like that? The FBI is going to have to make sure that the security is improved until they can trace the threat or at least determine how real it is - the move screams self-sabotage.

And another thing - why send it to Betty directly? How did the person even know who to address it to? It is not like Betty is a famous agent by any means - she is still just a rookie. She rarely, if ever, does any public interviews or appearances, so how did this person know who she was? Plus, crimes like this aren’t even her division - as far as she knows, there is nothing art-related about this case apart from the letter being a drawing.

But still, it somehow ended up landing on her desk and that _has_ to mean something.

But what?

  
  


**_3_ **

Veronica is stretched across Betty’s couch, her glasses pushed high on her nose as her eyes carefully read every single word written in the file in front of her, occasionally reaching out towards the coffee table to grab another slice of pizza or to take a sip of her wine.

Betty can be found in a very similar position, but unlike Veronica, she is occupying space on the floor and the files are laid out in a nice half-circle around her, each one within her reach in case something in them would catch her eye. But so far, the only thing she has been reaching for is pizza and not that she doesn’t enjoy that (because, who wouldn’t enjoy pizza), but she was really hoping to find something - anything - even though both of them knew that the agents on Hiram’s case did a brilliant job and if there was anything, even a smallest piece of evidence, they would have found it a long time ago.

She plays with her wine glass as she reads through the excerpt of Hiram’s financial statements, her finger running along the rim. She wonders if opening a bottle of wine was a good idea, since they are supposed to be working - but then, they aren’t on the clock anymore, so who can judge them based on how they choose to spend their free time? Betty is pretty sure Veronica would have better things to do on a Friday night, but had Betty not offered herself up for help, she would almost definitely be in the bathtub right now, trying to drown her sorrow, with some stupid sitcom playing on repeat and the same bottle of wine poured in her glass.

So, all in all, as pathetic as working past eight p.m. on a Friday night might seem, Betty couldn’t be more grateful for that distraction.

There’s a part of her that wants to ask Veronica to put down the file and forget about her father’s case for a second; that wants to sit by her friend, as close as possible, so she doesn’t have to do more than whisper as she lets the confessions escape her lips; that wants to share the secrets that keep her up at night, that tug at her chest painfully. That wants to tell her all about a boy she can’t stop thinking about, about his eyes that hold oceans of knowledge and understanding, about his laugh that could rival the world’s most spectacular symphonies, about his hands, warm and gentle as they caress her skin, sure and magical as they create masterpieces on canvases. Betty knows her story would inevitably twist and turn and end up in letdown, in disappointment, in heart ache, but that would be okay - it would be okay, because the suffocating weight of it would no longer lay solely on her heart. Breathing would be easier as the ache would partially lift off her chest and maybe, _for a moment_ , she could let herself believe that she can actually get through this.

Oh, if only it were that easy. If only this had been nothing but a simple high school crush on a pretty boy from her science class, instead of a confusing mess of feelings for somebody she has no business thinking this way about. She wants to, _oh, how desperately she wants to_.

She almost opens her mouth to say something, but she bites into her tongue before she can actually do it. 

_No_ , that would be very irresponsible and selfish. It is enough that she has compromised her own integrity by talking, by befriending, by _falling_ _for_ a criminal, she can’t drag her friend down that path as well. It simply wouldn’t be right. Her heart might be foolish for giving into his sweet smile and beautiful eyes, but her mind is even more foolish for thinking she could ever share that secret with anybody; for holding out hope that anybody could understand.

If the punishment for disobeying and diverting from rules is this solitude, this kind of gaping hole in her chest, this crushing weight pushing at her shoulders, than so be it; it is still better than having her entire life ripped out from her grasp, her future stumped on and dreams crumpled and thrown away. 

Reluctantly, she forces her attention back to the file in front of her, but the numbers don’t seem even fractionally as interesting as they seemed before. Nonetheless, Betty forces herself to look at them - Veronica is there for her even though she might not realise it, so it is only right that she should be there to support her too.

But somehow, she can’t force her mind to focus on Hiram Lodge, finding traces of the other criminal in everything she sets her eyes on, connections popping up in the most random and unexpected places.

She shakes her head lightly to rid herself of those thoughts. It helps, for a second, so she quickly picks up a financial review from the top of a pile, hoping that shifting her attention to work will prove useful.

She is still a bit distracted, so it takes her a couple of minutes to realise that she has already looked through this particular statement. There’s a small note written on the page’s margin, something about a pattern in the deposits followed with about a half of a dozen question marks, so Betty shifts her attention to that, to deciphering what might be hidden behind those figures. Even when she went through that statement for the first time, she remembers thinking there was something weirdly familiar about the pattern, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.

And now, that feeling is back. Buzzing lightly in the back of her mind, swirling in the pit of her stomach. 

_What is it? What is it about those numbers is screaming for her attention? Begging, pleading, notice me?_

There’s a pink highlighter somewhere within Betty’s reach and she blindly taps the ground around her, until her fingers bump into the pen, all without tearing her eyes away from the bank statement for even a split second.

The tip leaves a trace of neon behind as Betty runs it along the numbers, separating them into smaller groups.

Money is always moving out of the account, too randomly and too often to try to look for anything underneath, but the way it comes in… Always in chunks, always in the span of few days. The pattern is there, clear as a day, even though somebody probably spent a long time trying to mask their steps. 

It always begins with a relatively small deposit (which is still drastically higher than what Betty’s account holds currently) that gradually grows and in couple of days, it reaches a peak, with a sum that’s about five times higher than the first one. All of that is followed by a break and two other deposits, both of them roughly equal to what was added on the second or the third day. 

But it is not the pattern or the timetable of the deposits that keep nudging at Betty’s attention. No, it’s something else, it’s something bigger…

Her eyes shift to right, where the same person who made the note about the pattern summed up the exact value that has been deposited every time. 

It is those numbers, she knows it is them; they feel familiar. But why, what’s so interesting about them? 

The figures keep staring at her, almost as if they were taunting her. Laughing in her face for missing the obvious piece of the puzzle, for overlooking what’s right in front of her nose.

Jughead would definitely know what to do, he’d see what she is missing immediately. Had things been different, she would have already taken out the phone he gave her from the bottom drawer of her wardrobe long time ago (she probably wouldn’t have even stashed it there in the first place) and asked him for his opinion. Her knowledge of criminal world might be impressive due to her line of work, but it can barely hold a candle to his. He’d know what those numbers meant in seconds, just like he did with that _Monet_ painting -

 _Oh_.

Betty’s eyes widen as she takes in the whole page again, suddenly everything falling perfectly together, all of the pieces fitting together seamlessly. 

_Fuck_.

“Betty?” Veronica asks, but Betty barely registers her voice. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

And Betty feels like that - terror is caressing the back of her neck, the aftermath of the shocking connection she just made. It’s exactly like a ghost; her common sense, her heart, her everything is screaming at her that it can’t be true, that this simply can’t be real. But, she knows what she has seen and although she needs to double- and triple-check it, deep down, she is certain that she is right.

“Come take a look at this,” Betty says, calling Veronica over.

The girl gets up from the couch and carefully steps over the paper half-circle around Betty before sitting to the floor next to her.

“Alright, what am I looking at?” she asks as she squirms her eyes at the paper in Betty’s hand.

“Look at the first set of deposits and tell me what you see,” Betty says as she points to where she wants Veronica to look. She needs the girl to understand it for herself, she needs to know that she isn’t just seeing things; that the connection is really there.

“Seven deposits were made over the course of almost two weeks, adding up to approximately $80 million. They seem to be from from different accounts, but that could only be a rouse,” Veronica says. She keeps staring at the data, but says nothing more.

“The second part doesn’t matter now,” Betty shakes her head. “Look at the dates - do you remember what we were doing back then?” 

Veronica’s eyes shift and her brows furrow. “That’s just a couple of weeks after I transferred to New York,” she murmurs. “I don’t know, is it important?”

“Well, I don’t mean exactly during those twelve days, but more like overall. What was the first case you got assigned to?”

“Jones...” Veronica says. “Wait, are you suggesting that he has something to do with this?”

“I don’t know, maybe?” Betty asks. “Just look at those deposits and tell me you don’t see the correlation. A new string of deposits always begins a couple of weeks after one of his heists, the first one being _the Drowning Girl_ ; then this one is just a couple of days after he stole that jewellry set and we finally got a good shot of him; and this one? It starts two days after he robbed that bank- ” Betty explains, pointing at different parts of the paper “- tell me, that it is just a coincidence.” She isn’t completely sure about when the rest of the robberies went down, but judging by the gaps between them and how much time it usually takes Jughead to rob a new place, she is pretty sure they will fit into the pattern perfectly.

“I don’t know B, it seems like a bit of a stretch…” Veronica says skeptically, but with every passing second, Betty is just more and more sure about her theory.

“Lichtenstein sold _the Drowning Girl_ for $43 million originally. After stolen, the values of paintings skyrocket, doubling the original price easily. The first deposit is roughly $80 million. The one after the bank robbery? Just a couple thousand short of what was stolen,” Betty says. “I’m positive that if we looked into the exact prices of everything he has stolen, they would all fit.”

“Alright, but why? What does Jughead Jones have to do with my father?” Veronica asks. 

Oh, how deeply Betty wishes she knew the answer to that question. Hiram Lodge is by no means a good person and there’s only so many excuses she can make for Jughead, only so many crimes she can overlook. 

There’s that sadness nugging at her chest once more, a horrid disappointment if you will. She doesn’t have time to deal with that right now, so she just pushes it as far down as possible, ignoring the fact that it only makes her breathing harder.

“I have no clue,” Betty shakes her head. 

Once again, she wishes she could just call him up like she could before, that if she dialed his number the regular beeping of a dial-tone would shortly be replaced by his sweet voice. That he would offer her some answers, even the tiniest one would be enough, just anything so she could slowly start patching up the holes in her theory. That he would explain why all things are pointing to him sponsoring a man as dirty and as cruel as Hiram Lodge, why on Earth would that be the thing he chooses to spend his hard earned money on. 

Or even knowing how to get in contact with Fangs would come really handy right now, but unlike him, she doesn’t possess this magical ability to be able to track him down whenever she pleases, so all she can do is wait until he reaches out to her.

Veronica sighs heavily. “Well, sadly, it’s not like we can just call him up and ask about it.”

Betty’s heart almost stops for a second at her words, suddenly afraid that her friend might have been reading her thoughts. _There’s no way she knows, right…?_ “No, we can’t,” Betty agrees, the words barely coming out of her throat.

 _C’mon_ , there must be something you can do, just think Cooper - there must be somebody you can ask, somebody who might be able to shine a little light on this situation. Sitting back and relying on Fangs to find something and contact her with the information isn’t a plan she can handle. She has always preferred to do things on her own, knowing that she herself is the only person she can fully rely on, she can fully trust to deliver the results she expects.

She will come up with something, she will find someone - it is just a question of time.

“So, what are we going to do with this information?” Veronica asks. “I will admit, you’re right - this doesn’t seem just as a coincidence, but we still don’t know what does the connection mean.”

“I know, I know, just let me think,” Betty says.

She must be missing something, she is sure of it. An offhand comment made by Fangs, a detail she stumbled on during investigation that now would make more sense, something from the long calls with Jughead. Though they rarely talked about their work, knowing how sensitive and, well, just complicated all of that was, but _fuck_ , she called him to help her out and so did he -

“Oh,” Betty gasps suddenly.

Veronica raises her eyebrow at her. “What, don’t tell me that you’ve figured it all out?” 

“No,” Betty shakes her head. Her phone is already in her hand and she’s scrolling through her contacts, looking for the person who could potentially bring her closer to the answers her heart was seeking. “But I know where to start asking.”

  
  


**_4_ **

“So, are you going to finally tell me who’s that?” Veronica asks. Her eyes have been trained on the guy seated in the interrogation room ever since she has arrived, as if the mere act of staring could reveal all of his deepest secrets and darkest truths.

But the man’s face continues to be a perfect example of stoicity and mystery, his expression barely changing a single bit in the past few minutes. Even while Charles talked to him, probably explaining the situation in more detail than he could have over a phone, the man’s face remained calm and unreadable. 

It probably should worry Betty, raise warning hairs at the nape of her neck, but it doesn’t. No, instead, she finds the calmness intriguing, like it is simply just another mystery to solve.

And, solving this mystery will bring her a step closer to the answers she needs so desperately.

“You know I can’t technically do that,” Betty shakes her head. Her eyes linger at the man again, but not for long, snapping to her friend quickly.

There’s a scowl at Veronica’s face and Betty wants to say something to reassure her friend that everything is alright, that this is just how things simply are, but before she can open her mouth, Charles enters the room.

He nods to both of them as a greeting which Veronica takes as an invitation, immediately turning her attention to Charles, probably hoping that he is more likely to provide her with some answers. “So, who’s that?” she asks. Her voice is low and sweet and Betty almost wants to laugh at the fact that Veronica’s first instinct is to try to use her womanly charms, to get what she wants. Too bad that she has no chance to succeed as Charles could not possibly care less about any of that.

“That’s a person under witness protection and I’m positive that I don’t have to explain what that means, do I Miss Lodge?” Charles asks, his tone all to serious.

Betty laughs a little without looking at either of them, but she is sure that were she do so, she would have been met with Veronica’s angry gaze.

The girl sighs heavily before adjusting her approach. “How do you even know him?” Veronica asks her, directing her attention back to Betty.

 _Oh, she definitely can’t tell her that_ , Betty thinks. There’s no way to explain her involvement in all of this - just like she couldn’t have done it with Charles, somebody who has been a friend of her family for as long as she could remember. She just wouldn’t understand - nobody ever would.

“I would like to know that as well,” Charles says, surprisingly taking Veronica side.

Betty sighs and there’s an eye roll begging to break through, but she pushes it away as she locks eyes with her two colleagues. “Not that it is any of your business,” she says sternly, “but I don’t know him.”

She can see the questions on the tips of both of their tongues, trying to break out desperately, pushing crawling out. But apparently, as much as they would love to hear the answers, they know better than to ask, because the room stays silent, nothing apart from the clock on the wall daring to question Betty’s determination.

Betty hums approvingly as she places her notepad under one of her arms, picking up a tray with two paper cups up with the second one. There’s one more lingering look she shares with the two of them before pushing the door open with her back and quickly walking through the corridor to the next door. 

A deep inhale of the stale air that always seems to linger in this part of the Bureau’s building fills her lungs, a fleeting attempt at calming her racing nerves. Rationally, she knows what to expect on the other side. But irrationally, she can feel her heartbeat fastening and mind starting to spin slightly out of the control as fear slowly creeps up to every part of her body.

On exhale, she turns the doorknob an enters the room.

The man barely moves, but Betty notices the slight flinch of his eyes in her direction. 

Neither of them say anything as Betty closes the door behind herself and quickly checks whether Charles had really left the microphone and camera off as she requested. The light next to both controls is shining red, a reassurance that there will be no recording of the conversation that is about to be held within these four walls calming Betty the slightest bit down. So, with a bit more confidence to her steps, she crosses the room until she reaches the table, placing the cupholder along with her notepad down before sitting on the empty chair across the man.

The silence continues, still as heavy and as deafening as when she entered. Without breaking it, Betty pulls both cups out from the holder - a black tea for her and an equally black coffee for him. 

She tries to not watch him (or not be too obvious while doing it), but neither the slight furrow of his brows nor the way questioning wrinkles appear around his eyes escapes her attention.

“It’s not poisoned, you know,” she decides to say, her head slightly nodding towards the cup.

For a second, he seems surprised at her words, too perpexled to say anything - but that moment passes as fast as it came about, the unreadable mask pulled up once again. “I didn’t think so,” he says carefully. “Thanks,” he adds then, but still, doesn’t reach for the cup.

Betty understands all too well why he is wary of the situation - after all, he is under witness protection. All of his visits and meetings with the FBI are scheduled well ahead and never with somebody new, somebody he doesn’t know. His safety must always remain a priority and even though Betty knows that Charles has definitely ensured that it still holds, even today, he doesn’t know that. All he knows is that for some reason, his presence was required today by the FBI - and in the eyes of a criminal, that rarely means anything good.

“What am I doing here?” he asks carefully, almost as if he had an insight into Betty’s mind, knowing exactly what she was thinking.

“We haven’t met yet,” Betty says instead of answering his question. “I’m Mr. Smith’s colleague and I believe that you might have some useful information about the case I’m working on.”

His eyebrow shoots up immediately. He leans forward and for the first time, he takes a good and proper look at Betty. She can feel the blues of his eyes burning into her with an intensity that would easily make one budge, but she doesn’t - she won’t show weakness just like that. “Really? What makes you believe that?” he asks.

Betty raises her eyebrow at him, but the motion isn’t full of surprise or shock as his was. No, the move is smooth and full of answers, given that one knows what to look for. 

And Joaquin DeSantos has been around long enough to be able to read it effortlessly.

A small chuckle falls from his lips, one that quickly transforms into deep and hearty laughter, the type that makes person sit more comfortably and throw their head back in amusement. The type that builds up, from barely visible vibrations of one’s chest, all the way to loud echoes bumping off the walls of the empty room. But it is also the type that dies out all too quickly, that gets drowned out by the heavy implications and harsh reality.

“You know, I was surprised when Jug told me that he could get me into witness protection,” Joaquin says slowly. He picks up the paper cup from the table, his whole posture somehow easing up in mere seconds, his wariness and stoicity practically evaporated. “So, I pestered him for the longest time, until he finally told me that he knows somebody on the inside, that he _trusts_ somebody on the inside.” 

There’s a great difference between the feelings the word _trusts_ stirs up in Betty and the way it leaps from Joaquin’s tongue, sharp and hostile, almost as if he wanted to break out into another round of laughter, this time a lot more saractic one. Even she herself isn’t quite sure what is happening - is she cursing Jughead for being so stupid, for putting his trust into an agent that was (and still is) tasked with putting him behind bars, or is that warm feeling inside of her less of an angry fire and more of a warm flicker, the same kind as she felt every time they spoke, every time her thoughts ventured to his kind eyes and soothing voice?

“Well, I can’t say that it was a smart decision on his part,” Betty shrugs nonchalantly, deciding to ignore whatever mess of feelings started settling in her chest.

“I agree with you,” Joaquin says, but his neither his voice or look make it seem like he is quite present. He seems lost in his thoughts, floating somewhere around and pondering the questions of life and reality itself.

Betty clears her throat which works efficiently in snapping him out of his haze.

“I’m glad to hear that,” she says. Her eyes linger at the man for a second longer before drifting down to the notepad in front of her. The front page is empty, ready to be filled with new information she learns. 

Joaquin copies her motions, his eyes falling on the notepad between them as well before flipping back to Betty. “But you didn’t come here to just chat about how stupid Jughead can act,” he says.

Betty shakes her head. “No, I haven’t.”

Joaquin leans back in his chair and watches Betty vigilantly. He is clearly waiting for her to start, to ask whatever is weighing on her heart. But suddenly, she finds that every word she picks out, they all taste sour and bitter on her tongue; none of them manages to quite encompass the heaviness, the urgency she feels; the need to do something, to save Jughead. It drives her mad, the inability to come up with a way to help, the inability to even start figuring out a way how.

At the end, a question finally forms at the tip of her tongue. It still feels rough around the edges and nearly not enough, but it is a start. “What do Jughead’s parents want to do with him?”

To occupy herself while she waits for an answer, she picks up her cup of tea and leans back at her chair. Her fingers twitch around the paper cup, squeezing it tighter as her heartbeat fastens, too antsy to just stay still. The initial secrecy and tension is long gone and so Betty doesn’t try to hide her invasive stare behind the cup or take breaks to not seem overly eager. 

After all, there’s no point in trying to hide her intentions - Jughead may not have told Joaquin everything, but he has told him enough for the man to put pieces together on his own. And how could Jughead have expected that he wouldn’t have - Joaquin is clearly far from stupid, if his rank or experience with the Serpents are anything to go by.

“I don’t know,” Joaquin says and Betty wants to not believe him, but there’s something earnestly honest about his voice. His shoulder shag slightly and there’s this underlying finality to his movements, one that Betty simply refuses to accept.

“You must know something,” she says. Her voice stays measured and calm for now, but she knows it won’t take long for the desperation to raise to the surface, feeling it already simmering on the inside.

“I know something, I know lot - I can go on for hours about the Serpents’ business partners, about how their distributions worked, the patterns, routes and numbers. Hell, at one point, I probably knew about the architecture more than FP himself,” Joaquin snickers. He pauses and Betty can’t help but notice a tint of longing in his expression, sadness for what used to be his life, for what he gave up. But that momentary wave of nostalgia passes as quickly as it has appeared, leaving nothing but a ghost of a soft smile behind. “With the position I had in Serpents, there was just a single thing that was off-limit to me - and that was Jughead.”

Betty’s brows furrow. “But you were friends?” she asks.

“We were - we still are. That’s not what I meant by him being off limit,” Joaquin shakes his head. “I’m sure you know that his relationship with his parents isn’t the greatest -” Joaquin pauses and Betty nods in affirmation, “- but to be honest, I don’t think the word relationship is even applicable anymore. Their business, the Serpents, are more of a son to them than Jughead had ever been and I think that at some point, by some sort of twisted logic, they’ve became obsessed with the idea that their two kids belong together. Everybody knew that, everybody knew how set in their ways the Joneses were to get their son to his _rightful place_ , but they never shared their plans with any of us.”

Betty’s eyes fall shut, her lids heavy with the realisation that she had gotten her hopes up for nothing, that her only strand of connection to Jughead is useless. 

“Look, I wish I could help you, I really do,” Joaquin says, his voice kind and soft. “I know you wouldn’t be here if something bad hasn’t happened and well, I’m not stupid enough to not realise what that means.” A pregnant pause follows and Betty doesn’t dare to say anything to break it. “I will tell you one thing - Jug is smart and he can find his way from any situation, no matter how bad and dire it might seem. All you have to do is believe in him and make sure to be there once he needs you.”

She wants to laugh, because, how can she? How can she believe in him, how can she _trust_ him? How can she be there when he hadn’t been there for her - and even worse, how can she be there for him, when he is in this situations because of her? Fangs didn’t have to spell it out for her, nobody had to - the photo he left for her spoke volumes.

So, how can she just sit by and wait, how is she supposed to do nothing and then live with the weight of guilt that all of his suffering is caused by her?

She simply can’t - not unless she will do everything in her power to get him out of that mess.

Betty opens her eyes, straightening in her seat. Her posture is determined and so is her mind - she is going to get to the bottom of all this - and she will help him, no matter what she will have to sacrifice, no matter how great the cost is going to be.

“Well then, I believe you can tell me at least about the relationship the Serpents have with Hiram Lodge,” she says.

The corners of Joaquin’s lips tug up, in a way that feels almost proud. “That I can do,” he nods as slowly starts explaining.

  
  


**_5_ **

At some point, Betty has lost count of the number of nights that she and Veronica spend like this - laid out in her living room, with thick files and bags of evidence covering every reachable surface. Whether it was on Hiram’s case, on the Serpents or on Jughead, neither of them knew anymore - the lines got blurred a long time ago. 

The three cases stopped being a separate entities and more they looked for the connections, the more they found - hard proofs staring them right in the face, screaming, almost laughing at them for being so blind, for not noticing sooner.

How has the connection between the Serpents and Hiram Lodge not come up during his trial? How has nobody connected the dots, how has nobody thought of the possibility that one of the most notorious and sneaky criminals of New York might be working alongside the most powerful gang in the city? And how has she not looked deeper into Jughead’s parents, how has she not investigated the connection? (Why was it that the almost pleading tone of his voice, when he brokenly whispered into the phone that he was _nothing like them_ was enough for her to completely trust him, to completely disregard the possibility of any connection?) 

(Had she looked into it, could she have prevented the series of unfortunate events that followed?)

(Could she have prevented the heartache?)

No matter how much she would have liked to know the answers to those questions, pondering about what ifs and endless possibilities of what she could have done differently simply weren’t enough. She couldn’t change the past, she couldn’t go back and make different decisions. This was the path she has chosen and like it or not, she had to stick to it.

So, she picks up another file from the file and tries to not let her eyes linger on the picture that is stapled in the upper right corner, on the soft smile and blue eyes.

She tries not to think about him, because every time she does, a sharp hiss of pain seems to stab at her heart, violent and piercing. At first, she was sure that it was hatred; then heartbreak. Maybe even guilt, for not being able to stop things from getting worse.

Betty isn’t quite sure what it is now - though she knows that it still hurts. That it makes her want to sink the nails of her fingers into her palms to draw the pain out, remove it from where it hurts the most; that it makes her want to get on her bike and rush through the streets, well over the speed limit, hoping to spot the familiar grey beanie somewhere in the city of millions. It doesn’t matter that it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack - if that’s what she needs to do to get rid of that pain, there’s no stone she’ll leave unturned, no possibility she’ll let go unconsidered.

But it’s not that simple - nothing ever is.

Her eyes linger on Jughead’s photo for a second longer before finally moving away. (Though the soft smile stays burned into the back of her mind.)

She barely gets a chance to get started on the file, when a knock on the door interrupts the silence.

Veronica’s eyes are full of questions and Betty has answers for none of them, so she just lets the file hit the ground with a soft thud and quickly gets up of the floor. 

“Are you expecting somebody tonight?” Veronica calls out after her as Betty exits the living room.

“Not that I am aware of,” Betty says. She still hasn’t agreed with Charles on that catch-up dinner she has promised him, nor had figured out a time to meet with Archie during non-working hours, but neither of them should be here tonight.

Her body pushes against the door as her eye looks through the peep-hole. However, the image she sees isn’t really helpful; the figure leaning against the wall opposite of her apartment is dressed in all black with a baseball cap pulled so low that no amount of skin is visible. 

A voice in Betty’s head whispers that she probably should be a bit more afraid than she is, but lately, she has gotten all too good at ignoring it. Still though, she reaches towards a cabinet by the door blindly, her fingers finding the handle of her gun easily. She turns the lock,but leaves the security chain in its place, before slowly opening the door.

The sound makes the man’s head rise and with that, Betty’s grip on her gun tightens.

“Fangs,” she whispers, his name falling off her lips easily, sounding more like a plea and not a threat that it was supposed to be. She clears her throat before continuing. “What are you doing here?”

His eyebrow rises and grin widens. “I told you I’d drop by once I’d have more information,” he shrugs nonchalantly, as if it was the most banal thing ever. 

Betty blinks a couple of times, unsure if she’s hearing right - she might have hoped, _dreamed_ , that Fangs would keep his word and had he found any intel, he would have contacted her, but if she was to be honest, that’s all what it was - a dream.

“Can I come in or do you want to risk one of your neighbours seeing me here?” Fangs asks, taking advantage of Betty’s silence.

She opens her mouth to answer, but a voice from inside of her apartment is quicker. “Betty? Is everything okay?”

A moment of fear seems to flash through Fangs’ face, but it is gone as fast as it appeared, replaced by the cool facade he usually sports.

Betty takes a second to consider her options - sending Fangs away and not knowing when she would get another opportunity to see him and get any intel on the situation, or inviting him in and risking that Veronica recognises him or that she simply asks a question too many. Neither of those is a path she is willing to follow through, but sadly, her mind has decided to freeze up on her, not offering any other solutions.

She’s frozen and lost in thought so deeply, that she doesn’t hear Veronica as she taps out from the living room and into the hall; she barely even registers the way she gasps softly. “B?” Veronica asks, “who’s there?”

Startled at her friend’s voice, Betty turns around, forgetting about everything else for a moment - about the half-open door, about Fangs and his vigilant gaze, about the gun that she is still holding against her lower back. Her eyes meet Veronica’s and she quickly tries to come up with an answer, but somehow, her tongue gets tied up and trips at every lie.

“Wow, a gun, agent? And here I thought we were friends,” Fangs tsks, his accusatory tone sending a wave of cold sweat along her back.

Well, that seems to solve the dilemma of what to do - there is no chance that Veronica is going to let this go now without getting to the bottom of the identity of Betty’s mysterious _friend_. So, not really having any other option left, Betty lets her shoulders sag. With her foot, she pushes the door closed and makes a quick work of undoing the chain. 

For a moment, she considers tucking the gun underneath the waist of her pants, her mind latching onto the idea of false security that the object offers. But she doesn’t go through with it, because as much as she would like to tell herself, as much as she would love to lie to herself, she is more than aware of the reality that she would not be able to draw the weapon and to talk about using it - impossible. If anything, she thinks it wouldn’t be a feeling of security that would creep up onto her, but rather of fear and a certain sense of betrayal. Fangs might be a criminal, but he is also, as he put it (and as crazy as it might sound), a somewhat of a friend to her.

And with that slightly terrifying thought lingering at the back of her mind, she drops the gun back to the cabinet and opens the door.

“Come in,” she whispers. There’s a hint of uncertainty in Fangs’ eyes, maybe even disbelief, but nonetheless he steps forward and walks by Betty into her apartment.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, just don’t make me regret this,” Betty sighs as she motions towards the living room, sending both Veronica and Fangs that way. She takes a deep breath before following them, a futile attempt to calm her racing nerves.

When she enters the living room, Veronica is already seated on the couch, a wine glass in her hand and eyes trained on Fangs with such intensity that buildings would quiver and shake underneath her scrutiny. But Fangs doesn’t even seem to notice it; instead, he looks around the room with a certain cheeriness in his movements and does his best to pretend he isn’t taking in every single detail, especially not from the dozens of files opened up on the ground.

The tension is palpable in the air and Betty finds herself wishing that in order to get to her wine glass, she wouldn’t have to cross the room, which feels more like a minefield than anything else right now.

She doesn’t dare to make that move, instead continuing to hover by the entrance.

The silence is picking at her skin slowly and deep down, she knows that she needs to do something to break it - but her throat is dry and her mind is empty - and so she continues to stare blankly, unsure of why she allowed for this torturous situation to happen. It feels like her worst nightmare coming true - her two worlds coming crashing together, but instead of a huge and loud bang, there’s nothing but this deafening silence.

So deafening that when Fangs claps his palms together, she almost jumps out of her skin.

“Well, I don’t want to come off as rude or anything like that, so allow me to introduce myself,” he says, the words spilling out his mouth in a quick succession. “I’m Fangs.”

His hand is outstretched towards Veronica, whose eyes keep jumping between his face and palm. She stays like that for a few second before placing down her wine glass and blatantly ignoring his gesture.

“I know who you are,” she says slowly and Betty feels her heart dropping as her friend’s face turns towards her, “Betty, what the fuck?”

Betty has always prided herself in being good at reading people - it is one of the reasons why she chose to pursue a career in FBI. She loved analysing the micro expressions that play across person’s face, that reveal their deepest thoughts and craziest desires. A twitch of a lip there, a squint of an eye here, a muscle tightening or relaxing - every movement told a story.

Betty doesn’t remember the last time she has seen somebody’s expression so void of emotions as Veronica’s right now - so hauntingly empty. It chills Betty to the bone - maybe she should tried harder to send Fangs away. Maybe… But who could blame her for not wanting to carry that burden on her own anymore, who could blame her for wanting to share this part of her with her friend?

“I can explain,” Betty says slowly. 

“Oh, I’m all ears,” Veronica says immediately.

Betty dares to sneak one quick look at Fangs, surprised to find comfort and encouragement from his presence. _It’s going to be okay_ , his eyes say. _Do whatever you have to,_ his smile whispers.

She takes a deep calming breath before staring. “Fangs has been helping me to look for Jughead,” she says carefully, her eyes trained on Veronica, looking out for any shifts in her expression that might give away her thoughts. But nothing like that happens, so Betty just decides to blindly trust and continue. “Actually, he’s the one who came to me when he went missing.”

If the silence felt suffocating before, Betty doesn’t think she can come up with words to describe how it feels now. She wishes that the room would just already swallow her whole, that the ground would part underneath her feet and pull her down into the deepest pits of hell, where she clearly belongs after this. Why is she letting this happen? As if it wasn’t enough that she is compromised, that she has sacrificed her integrity for that criminal, but dragging somebody else down with her… That’s just whole another level of wrong.

“Why…” Veronica starts, but the question dies on her tongue before she can get to the point. She clears her throat and tries again. “Why would he come to you?”

 _Because this is my fault,_ Betty thinks. _Because Jughead is in this mess because of me._

_Because a certain part of him, no matter how small or big, apparently cares about me._

_And, because the truth is, that I care about him as well._

Though it is not like she can say any of that, so she instead bites into her tongue and drops her gaze to the floor. 

“Because Betty is an amazing agent,” Fangs says casually, breaking the silence instead of Betty, “and if there’s somebody who has any chance to figure out where Jug is and how to get him out of it, it’s definitely her.”

The words sound so natural as they slip from Fangs’ tongue that Betty finds herself believing in them momentarily - buying into the idea that she could be the one to break this puzzle, that she could be the one to pull him out of the evil grasp of his parents. That she could come out of this victorious, as a _hero_ \- oh, she could easily get used to those naïve thoughts.

Sadly, there’s no scenario which would have her come on top - there’s no way her two worlds will be able to coexist without first crashing into each other and causing a terrible catastrophe.

“And why would she agree to help you, instead of arresting you on spot?” Veronica asks.

“Because she has a good heart?” Fangs offers.

And Betty _is_ thankful to him for that - for attempting to help defuse the situation, for jumping in where Betty’s words feel short. But sadly, there is no way this will be solved by saying that _she has a good heart_ or even by mentioning _what an amazing agent she is_ \- sugar-coating and half-truths will only get you so far in life.

“Because just like he can’t save Jughead without me, the same goes the other way around - I can’t do it without him,” Betty starts. Her voice is shaky with the first words, but the insecurity slowly leaves her system as the words get truer and realer. “Look, this whole thing is a big and rather complicated mess, but I need you to believe me when I say that Jug doesn’t deserve to be in the position he is - controlled by his parents, blackmailed, held against his will. Yes, he might be a criminal, but he does not deserve that.”

Veronica stares at her, her expression devoid of anything but shock. She blinks once, twice, as the words sink into her. “And how do you know that? Did he, this criminal you have just invited to your home, tell you that?” Veronica asks and Betty almost winces at her friend’s accusatory tone.

Even though Veronica’s guess is technically correct, Betty doesn’t let that show. “I just simply know.”

Veronica scoffs and rolls her eyes; of course she does. Of course she doesn’t believe Betty, why should she? After all, she has just revealed that she is on a friendly terms with _at least_ one criminal she should be working on putting behind bars and is now asking her to trust her without any proof or evidence. Had the roles been reversed, Betty knows that she for sure would have trouble believing anything about the situation.

However, she doesn’t let that stop her. “V, I know that this is crazy and frankly, a lot, but I need you to believe me, to trust in me. Please, I can’t do this alone. You have seen enough about the Serpents and Joneses; you know what kind of family that is. Nobody deserves that, not even Jug,” Betty pleads, desperate to get through to her friend.

Veronica hums, but doesn’t say anything else. The room gets enveloped in another drawn-out silent pause, one that makes Betty’s mind spin out of control and her anxiety skyrocket. She is about to go on another rant, her mind already composing a list of reasons why Veronica should help her, when Veronica speaks out.

“You call him Jug,” she says. Her voice is careful and soft and it surprises Betty, all the way to the point where her mind stops and she cannot do anything but stare emptily, shocked by the observation.

“Yeah,” Betty says slowly, unsure of what is happening.

“It just sounds…” she starts, but her voice trails off, the sentence left unfinished, but it doesn’t need to be said; the rest of it hangs in the air, suspended above them in all of its heaviness and scariness. _Caring,_ Veronica whispers with the way her expression changes, from shocked to a slow understanding, to finally piecing everything together. Realisation comes in a form of a smile and reluctant support in the twinkle of her eyes.

Betty partially expects an onslaught of questions; she expects an avalanche, a downpour, a tornado even. But instead, Veronica does let her supportive gaze waver as she asks: “So, what did you bring for _us_ , Fangs?” and it feel like a light drizzle on a hot summer day, something you look forward to and welcome with open arms, allowing yourself to forget how easily rain turns into storm. 

Betty smiles at her friend, hoping that the simple upturn of her lips could somehow convey the gratitude she feels right now. It stems deeply in her heart, from where a rock used to lay, her secret weighing her down, her fear that nobody would ever understand haunting her dreams. She knows that it is not over, by any means - just because Veronica is not bombarding her with questions now, it doesn’t mean that she isn’t going to do so later; just because she is agreeing to help now, doesn’t mean she fully supports her; just because she is accepting now, doesn’t mean she will be forever, or that anybody else will, for that matter.

But for now, none of that matters and a spark of happiness and hope is lit in Betty’s chest as she turns expectantly towards Fangs.

There’s a proud smile still lingering on his mouth, but it disappears rather quickly as he licks his lips and starts talking. “Yeah, so, I don’t have a lot, because the Serpents are very secretive about their plans, which is _crazy_ , considering how huge of a gang they are. Like, you would think somebody of them would slip up, but no, _nada_ ,” he says, shaking his head disapprovingly. “But, the word on street is that they are planning something big.”

“Something big?” Veronica asks. “Is that some sort of criminal code for something, or are you going to elaborate on that?”

Fangs laughs, his shoulders dropping lightly and the only word that comes to Betty’s mind when she tries to describe that action is relief. “No, I’m not asking you to guess,” he shakes his head. “Nobody could really confirm anything, but majority of people I talked to said something about a robbery, which makes sense.”

“Because they have Jones,” Veronica says, more of a reassurance to herself than a question.

Fangs nods before continuing talking. “Now, there are many potential targets; since it is involving Jughead, my initial guess was that it is going to be an art heist. I know which places we were thinking of hitting - some with important pieces of art, some with insufficient security - but I doubt Jughead will be on the choosing committee for either the location or the prize.”

“Still, mind sharing the list with us?” Betty asks.

“Good try,” Fangs laughs. “Though after further consideration, I doubt they are going to be hitting any of them. They might seem lucrative for us, but they are waste of time and effort for regular, more money-oriented criminals like the Serpents. They don’t want to have to bother with stealing art - making the forgery, figuring out how to break in and make the switch, transporting and selling the original - those are tedious and long steps you have to take and in the end, you still risk ending up with less money than you would get, had you just robbed a bank.”

“So, is that what should we be looking at? Banks?” Veronica asks.

“I don’t think so either,” Fangs shakes his head. “See, the Serpents aren’t very good criminals, but even they can rob banks. It is not that hard once you learn the ropes and I know for a fact that they have gone through with several robberies without a single hiccup.”

“Okay, no banks,” Veronica hums. “What does that leave us at?”

“Honestly, still pretty much anything. They could be going after weapons, they could be going after gold, hell, they could be breaking into a maximum security prison to get somebody out - the possibilities are endless, especially in a city like New York, where there’s anything right at your fingertips,” Fangs sighs. 

Betty listens to their conversation, but doesn’t engage. Normally, she would - if only this weird feeling hasn’t settled over her stomach. She knows that feeling, that unease; it always comes when she is missing something, when there is something huge that she is overlooking, something that is not only staring right into her face, but practically screaming: _I’m here! Look at me, I’m the puzzle piece you are missing!_

She can’t put her finger on it and it is slowly driving her mad. The wheels in her mind are grinding against each other, Fangs and Veronica’s voices ring in her ears as they carry on in their conversation. She can barely distinguish the words they say, she can barely hold her focus on continuing to stand straight and breathing. 

It is just a vicious cycle of knowing that she is missing something important, it is just this hazy fog covering her mind and judgement. She can almost taste the answer on the tip of her tongue, she can almost make out the words floating around her.

“...would be much easier if Jones could send us a message or something,” Veronica sighs.

_If Jones could send us a message._

_A message._

“What if he did?” Betty asks suddenly, slurring the words together, her mouth moving almost as fast as her thoughts. She drops to her knees and dives into the stacks of papers on the floor, knowing it definitely is here somewhere.

“What if he did what?” Fangs asks, confused.

“A message,” Betty mumbles. Her movements become more frantic with each swipe, all the way to the point where the piles she goes through don’t resemble piles anymore, but could better be compared to a crater in the ground after a meteorite strike.

“What? When?” somebody asks and Betty doesn’t have the mental capacity to connect the voice to a name - not when her hands come upon a white envelope.

She waves it triumphantly in front of Veronica’s face.

“What’s that?” her friend asks.

“Don’t you remember? I got this a couple of weeks ago -” she points at where her name and the Bureau's address is scribbled, “- you brought it to me from Ethel.”

“Oh, yeah! There was that drawing inside, right?”

Fangs’ attention perks up at that as well. “A drawing?”

Betty nods and opens up the envelope, pulling out the paper. She places it down, the side with the drawing up, and it doesn’t take Fangs and Veronica even a second before they are on the floor next to her, both of their heads leaning down at staring at the scrap of paper between them.

“Is that -” Fangs starts.

“The Federal Reserve? Yes,” Betty finishes for him. “I didn’t understand it before, but do you think it’s possible that he sent that? That this is a message, a warning?”

“Well, the handwriting on the envelope definitely isn’t his, but this... “ Fangs’ voice trails off as his fingers run across the picture. “This definitely could be his work.”

“Okay, but why would he just send this? Why not send an actual helpful message instead?” Veronica wonders out loud.

“Maybe he did both,” Fangs mumbles, “do you have a pen and a paper?”

Betty reaches for her notepad and passes it to Fangs and watches as he immediately gets to work, noting down some sort of code.

Veronica leans closer to him and watches him carefully. “What’s that?” she asks after a while.

“Back in the art school, we always tried to come up with ways how to incorporate secret messages into our paintings,” Fangs answers without lifting his gaze. He points out the the brick wall of the building: “See how just some of those bricks are colored? The building is the main part of the drawing and I’m pretty sure that even in real life, those bricks aren’t mono-colored, but you’ve got to admit, that’s _a lot_ of extra, and frankly unnecessary, detail. Also, those windows are just too wonky and unorganised to not have anything hidden behind.”

“Can you read it?” Veronica asks, the question simple and crucial.

“If I can’t, then somebody else definitely will be able to,” Fangs murmurs. The pen is running along the page, copying down lines and symbols. “But I’m pretty sure I know what he did,” he adds.

Betty watches breathlessly as Fangs easily translates the initial mess of scribbles into letters, as words slowly start forming on the page in front of them. 

The message isn’t long, but it is something, it is _enough_. Everything they need is in there - the confirmation of the place, the time, the short outline of the plan. 

Betty’s heart leaps and skips and she has to pinch herself to make sure she isn’t dreaming, to make sure that this is really the reality. That Jughead has send something to them, something that would eventually become crucial in getting him out of this mess.

“Alright, so, what now?” Veronica asks carefully. They’ve been sitting around the decoded message for quite a while now, each of them trying to comprehend what has just happened on their own terms. 

She still half-expects the message to disappear into thin air next time she blinks; she still half-expects to suddenly wake up to find out that this all has been nothing but a dream. The fact that he has sent them the message implies the existence of some sort of plan, some plan they could use to get him out of this mess, to save him. 

Excitement swirls up in her stomach, bubbling and fluttering, all the way to the point where she has to reach for her wine glass and try to drown it, reminding herself that she is still supposed to be mad at him.

“I’ve got to talk to my friends,” Fangs says, standing up from his spot on the floor abruptly. 

“Fangs, wait!” Betty says, quickly getting up, but still practically having to run after him. He is already almost by the door by the time she catches up; she grabs his arm to stop him from going any further. 

“Betty, I’ve got to talk to Pea and Toni about this,” Fangs whispers once they are out of Veronica’s ear shot. He sounds desperate, his voice pleading and almost - _scared_. He doesn’t hold her gaze, instead ducks his head down and stares at the floor.

Betty stares at him, long and drawn-out gaze, and it only deepens the heavy silence that has fallen upon them. He is hiding something, something that he hasn’t been when he arrived, something new. It makes her senses spark up and pay full attention, her brain fraction of moment away from jumping to the interrogation mode and just word-vomiting a bunch of questions, not stopping until her curiosity is satiated and the truth spoken.

But she ends up biting into her tongue, choosing to ignore the way Fangs is avoiding her. “Fine, go talk to them,” she says, “but I’m going to give you my number and you’re calling me the moment you agree on something, the moment you learn anything new.”

“I shouldn’t -” Fangs starts.

“I don’t care,” Betty shuts him down. She quickly reaches to the cabinet by her door and pulls out her business card from one of the compartments. She pushes it into Fangs’ hands and doesn’t tear her eyes away from it until he zips it in his jacket’s pocket.

Fangs pulls his hat back on, pushing it as far into his eyes as possible and heads towards the door.

Betty lets him out and watches him leave without goodbye, leave without picking his brain about what caused his fast departure, because she sure as hell knows that it isn’t just because he needs to talk to Pea and Toni. There’s something more to it, something he isn’t telling her, something that he would definitely deny had she asked him to.

It is only much later that night, when it is just her and Veronica and another bottle of wine (and a tons of plans on what to do with this new information), that Veronica voices a question that sends a shiver down Betty’s spine, that makes her freeze in her motions and just think about the implications behind the action, think about the endgame that Jughead must have had in mind when he made that decision.

“You know what I still don’t get?” Veronica asks. The wine in her glass swirls, leaving a red trace behind.

“What?” Betty asks. There’s a certain calmness to her voice and she isn’t sure what it is caused by; the breakthrough, the fact that her best friend now knows (at least a bit) about her secret or the wine.

“Why send that drawing to you in the Bureau? Why not send it to your home address? Or directly to Fangs?”

Betty opens her mouth to answer, but no sound comes out. The words get stuck in her throat and the silence allows her to really think about that question, think about that small detail.

And nothing that she comes up with sounds like a particularly appealing explanation.

“I have no idea, V,” Betty answers and quickly takes another sip of her wine, hoping that the action manages to hide the graveness that has founds its way into her voice, replacing the ease that has resided there until seconds ago.

But the thoughts are already there, seeded deep in her mind and Betty suddenly understands the urge Fangs had felt to flee at the realisation. 

It terrifies her to the bones.

  
  


**_+1_ **

Jughead hates the way the thick fabric of the black ski mask clings to his skin. It itches, it scratches, it bites. He wants nothing more than to tear it away, than to peel it off his face and burn, effectively erasing it from the existence.

But he can’t do that and not only because he doesn’t have a lighter on himself, but because another one would be forced on him instantly, a cruel reminder of the harsh reality. Of the reality that this is now what he has become - a lie, a deceit, a fraud. Hiding behind a mask, not only physical but also a metaphorical one, barely surviving one day at a time instead of living it to the fullest. 

There is a bump on the road that makes Jughead’s body jump up, but nobody else in the back of the truck even flinches at it.

Jughead doesn’t want to look at them, he doesn’t want to think about the people underneath the masks, but in the silence of the truck, he can’t help but wonder - who are they, underneath that thick layer of fabric? Are they here because they believe in his parents’ vision and share their opinions and beliefs, or are they here because their arms were twisted, just like his? Had they been given a choice between freedom and the life they are currently leading, would they drop everything and run away, or would they laugh and say that this _is_ their freedom? Is there something, _or someone_ , they would risk anything for, sacrifice their life, their dreams, their _freedom_?

The truck turns sharply and Jughead’s shoulder bumps into the man next to him. He quickly mumbles an apology before straightening up, but the man barely grumbles a response.

 _Do they dream?_ Jughead wonders. Do they dream of a better future, or is this what they always foresaw themselves doing? Leading a life chock-full of violence and crime, of guns, drugs and dirty money, of hiding away from the law? Is it just him who’s the odd one out, who finds it hard to breathe through the mask, who suffers in the small confined space of the back of a truck that’s speeding through the city, hurrying down a road he can’t see the end of?

Jughead squeezes his eyes shut and tightens his fists, hoping, _praying,_ for his mind to shut up, to stop thinking. But he can’t turn it off - no, the wheels keep spinning tirelessly, constantly grinding against each other and slowly building up a headache at the back of his head.

He tries to focus on the plan, but once his mind goes there, he wishes he hadn’t made that decision, because suddenly it isn’t just this existential crisis that’s hitting him, but it is also anxiety now. It crashes against his body in waves, almost knocking the air out his lungs each time, making him desperate for space and fresh air. But when he opens his eyes he has not moved a single inch from where he is squeezed between a dozen of bodies, still breathing the same stale and sweaty air as before.

It is no lie to say that when it comes to heists, when it comes to breaking and entering into secure facilities, Jughead is no amateur. He can’t even count how many places he has robbed in the span of the last couple years, how many times he has made it in and out with barely more help than Toni and Pea in his ear and a plan they have worked on almost as meticulously as he did on any of his forgeries.

And not once had he felt this type of fear creeping up on him, his throat tightening up and mind spinning out of control.

He always had full trust in their plans, knowing that there always were backup options and B-plans in case anything was to go sideways. And even though it rarely got to the point he had to resort to that, not once had he gone in without a contingency plan. He supposes the four of them always took care to cover all of their bases simply because neither of them were particularly thrilled about the idea of getting caught and ending up in jail.

Had the situation been any different, he would have made back-up plans and would have taken countless safety measures even for this heist, but with his parents thrown in the mix, the time pressure he was under to come up with a plan and the sheer insanity of what he was about to do, there is no other choice but to hope and pray that everything will work out as he wants it to. Just the simple idea of failing - of having to face his parents - chills him to the bones.

But, hopefully he won’t. 

_Oh, please, everything work out._

He closes his eyes shut for a couple of seconds, focusing on his breathing. His muscles relax as he sinks deeper into the uncomfortable metal bench, his body squeezed between two Serpents. He can feel the heat radiating from their bodies even through thick layers of clothing and he wonders - _are they as scared as he is?_

But when he opens his eyes back to check, he sees nothing but masks, empty spaces where their faces should be. 

Jughead doesn’t linger on the masks, not when he feels their voidness creeping up on him; instead, his eyes fall down and down, until they catch on the guns strapped to the Serpents’ hips, ones that are definitely loaded and ready to be used.

He hates the way the gun feels heavy on his own hip, dragging him down to a side and making his walk uneven; he hates the responsibility and the implications it carries. But most importantly, he hates the fact that it puts him on the same level as every other Serpent around him, that it puts him right to the spot he has been fighting against his whole life.

The truck comes to a stop and Jughead holds his breath for a second, praying that it is only a red light or a stop sign. He’d do anything to further the inevitable, to have a few more minutes of peace and calmness before being thrown into the madness that this heist is going to be.

But when three sharp knocks resonate through the metal of the truck and make their way through the thick fabric into Jughead’s ears, he has no other choice but to release that breath. It stumbles off his lips with a tremble.

Funnily enough, a memory from a couple of years ago pops into his mind, of a sunny day in Brussels. He remembers preparing for their first heist and thinking how it would be a point of no return for him, for his friends. And about how much his life would change after going through with it, about how nothing would be the same anymore. People usually get only one of those _point of no return_ moments during their lifetimes and here he is, going through a second one. 

If only this one didn’t take him down a more sinister road, a road he never thought he would end up taking.

“Are we going or what?” somebody asks, snapping Jughead out of his thoughts.

He blinks a couple of times, refocusing his vision on the dark figures around him, all staring at him expectantly. He wants to tell them to stop, to go home to their families and loved ones and to let him do the same, but he can’t; he can’t disobey, he can’t fight back, he can’t not listen.

Too much is on line for that kind of selfishness.

“Yeah,” Jughead says quickly, his own voice sounding foreign to his ears. He tries to ignore the feeling and swallow, but it is not only his thoughts that taste sour. “Just stick to the plan and remember, this can be done without any violence, so do _not_ shoot anybody.”

Even if the guns are there on his parents’ command, the plan is still his and there’s no way he’s letting it go through without at least attempting to prevent violence. Sleep will definitely come easier to him if no blood gets spilled tonight. He just prays that the same can be said about the Serpents that are accompanying him.

The Serpents around him murmur and Jughead isn’t sure if it is in agreement or not, but he doesn’t have time to question that anymore as there is another knock from the driver, signaling them that the air is clear and that they need to start moving now.

Two men closest to the exit pull the door open and a dozen of Serpents pours out of the truck, their movements synchronised, fluid as a sea of blackness.

Had the situation been any different, Jughead would have been amazed by the way they move, by the practised ease. He would also probably point out how he stands out like a sore thumb, his movements too rigid and harsh, instead of imitating their energy and focus, fear fuels his every muscle.

 _Alright brain, that’s enough of thinking_ , Jughead hushes himself. _Focus, or otherwise this will go horribly wrong_.

A screeching of tires cuts through the silence that covers the night and normally, Jughead would not think twice about it. But at times like these, there is no a space for mistakes, there is no a space for sweeping things under carpet, because every detail is important. Every detail could make or break the night, could push them a step closer to making it out of there victorious and covered in gold or bathed in red and blue neons and silver cuffs.

He lifts his head and peaks out towards the street, but the car is long gone for him to catch even the taillights of it. 

It is just a few hours before dawn and the sky is still pitch black, the lights dead in most of the windows around. A car occasionally speeds through the road, definitely way above the speed limit, but in the dead of night, nobody cares about things like that. And nobody certainly cares about a group of rather suspiciously-looking people uncovering an entrance into a sewer in a narrow alley, one that looks straight out of a horror movie.

And even if any restless soul hears the resonating thud with which the sewer cover hits the ground once it is unfastened, they definitely don’t say anything and just yawn before turning to the other side and trying their luck on sleep once again. 

It surely makes Jughead wonder - is there anybody like that? And would he be thankful if that person had done something, looked closer or called cops; would they become his saviour or executioner? Would they ruin the plan he has set into motion or would they just aid it, would they ensure it doesn’t fail?

However, he has no time to ponder at that any longer, as his turn to climb down the dirty ladder rolls around and he is in no position to deny. 

The ground inside of the sewer is covered in water and so instead of rhythmic thuds of the Serpents’ boots that echoed outside, it is now a _plop-plop-plop_ and in the small tunnel where the sound amplifies everytime it bounces off the walls, Jughead feels the nervous hammering in his head synchronising with the rhythm, making it only that more annoying. 

By the time they reach their destination, Jughead feels like either screaming or shooting somebody, neither of which are particularly smart options.

So, he doesn’t go with either and just bites into his tongue as he watches two Serpents work on their entrance into the building. They unscrew the protective cover before placing a small explosives on the sides. Then, they step back and set off the small bombs - the explosion not only opening up the door they were trying to, but also illuminating the tunnel for a split second as another protective cover - this time made out of metal bars - flies out of its hinges. It lands by Jughead’s feet and he cannot hold back a snicker he steps over it.

They enter the building of Federal Reserve through a boiler room, just like the plans said they would and once again, Jughead is a bit stunned as he watches the Serpents make their way through the room. There’s this fluidity to their movements, smooth and calculated, and Jughead can’t describe it with any other words than _snake-like_.

If things have been any different, he would really be impressed; but then he remembers who those people are - criminals, and not the _not that bad_ kind - and that is all he needs for his head to get rid of those thoughts and focus on the mission in front of him.

Slowly, carefully and most importantly, according to his plan, they make their way through the building, taking care of any guards or other security precautions they encounter.

By the time they reach their goal - the freshly printed stacks of money that are yet to be put into circulation - another wave of panic starts to creep up on Jughead. Everything has been going way too smoothly - there was not a single hiccup, not a single sight of trouble or problems. 

Don’t get him wrong - he is happy that the Serpents hadn’t spilled any blood so far or caused any irrevocable damage, but a part of him is just strung tight, waiting for that shoe to drop at any moment.

For a second, he stops and just observes the room. He watches as the Serpents stuff the bags they brought full of the green bills, not leaving a single paper behind. He watches them how the technicians make sure to alter the trace of that money, ensuring that once they get around to using it, nobody will be able to connect the serial numbers of the bills back to them, to this heist. Even the Serpents on the lookout seem to be doing their job, vigilant and alert by the door.

For a second, he just stands and breathes, waiting for that shoe to drop.

But when it doesn’t, he stops - or rather, he starts again.

He ducks out of that room and swiftly makes his way through the building, its floor plan engraved in his mind so thoroughly that he could do it with his eyes closed.

Even though the Federal Reserve has substantial amounts of money hidden behind its walls, that’s not the real treasure here. Some would quickly make an assumption that he is thinking about gold (which in all honesty, would be a pretty good guess, but there’s simply no way that he could pull that off on his own and with such short time to prepare), but he passes the door that would lead him towards the huge underground safe without sparing it a single look.

No, there’s another treasure hidden behind the walls of the Federal Reserve and with the building practically all to himself, there’s nothing that would stop him from checking it out.

And soon enough, he finds it - in the museum part of the building, hung proudly on the wall is _the Athenaeum Portrait_ \- an unfinished portrait of George Washington by Gilbert Stuart. Once again that night, Jughead stops to appreciate the art in front of him (and this time, it is not the art of heist), but rather the strokes of oil on canvas, immortalising the first American president in all of his glory. 

He reaches into his pocket and after a moment of fumbling, his fingers curl around the one-dollar bill he had taken out of his wallet earlier that day, bringing it out. It is a bit crumbled up, so he smooths it out as he raises his hand.

The resemblance is there, undeniable and clear, and Jughead finds a part of himself to be surprised by the observation, even though he knew that this painting was used as a model for Washington’s portrait on the bill.

A part of him desperately wants to take the painting off the wall and examine it closely. He wants to run his fingers against the canvas and see if he can feel bumps left by brushstrokes; he wants to put the tiny green Washington under microscope and then stare at the two portraits until he finds all of the differences. Hell, he himself wants to take a stab at the first American president, try his hand at creating his own copy of this most reproduced painting. 

Jughead would like to believe that had this heist happened under different circumstances, had it not been just his parents picking the biggest score in New York and saying _that’s your target, figure out the rest_ , had he not been forced to come up with a plan extremely short on time; had it been just him, Pea, Toni and Fangs planning this, he would definitely have gone after this timeless piece. 

Or, scratch that - he would have gone after this timeless piece even now, if only his exit plans were different.

His eyes linger on the painting for couple more seconds, appreciating its beauty to the fullest, before moving on. 

His original plan was to walk around the museum for a bit before heading back to the Serpents, but as a piercing scream reaches his ears, he forgets all about it instantly.

It must have started while he was too focused on the painting to notice, but the sounds of commotion are unmistakable; somebody is definitely in the building and by that he doesn’t mean neither the Serpents nor the guards they have knocked unconscious. Jughead holds his breath as he listens; he hears shouting, he hears running, he hears an alarm going off somewhere in the building.

And then, he hears gunfire.

His whole body winces at the sound, snapping him out of the half-frozen state he has fallen in and back to the reality. 

He should be on his way.

Jughead creeps out of the museum and slowly retraces his steps - heading towards the exit, towards the Serpents and towards the commotion.

Even in what now definitely isn’t a quiet space, Jughead still can hear his heart beating frantically; it hits his ribcage every time, violently jerking in its confined space. It is almost as if it wanted to break free and run away from him, if the way how the beating moves from his chest up to his throat and ears is anything to go by. Jughead doesn’t want to let that happen though; he bites down and gulps, he takes deep breaths and tries to calm himself down, anything to stop the fear from settling in.

Because, that’s what this is - fear.

Steps echo in the hallway and Jughead knows that he has only seconds before somebody will emerge from behind the nearest corner and aim their gun at him. He could try to run and maybe he should - but as the rhythmic thudding creeps dangerously close, he knows it would be useless and futile. It would only get him shot and well, he would love to prevent that.

So as the person quickly approaches the corner, Jughead slowly comes to a halt.

He stops in the middle of the corridor and waits for his destiny, for his actions to catch up with him, for his plan to come together.

“Hey, you! Hands where I can see them!” the person calls out and Jughead obeys. 

He starts lifting his arms up slowly, but when his eyes locate the agent, he freezes. A laugh starts to bubble in his throat and even though he wants and really desperately tries to keep it in, he can’t; it escapes from his lips and breaks through his mask and flies away from him, freely and carelessly, all the way to the agent.

Jughead can see her whole posture tense up and her brows furrow; but still, she holds her gun true, not flinching a bit from where it is aimed at his chest. “Oh, what’s so funny about being arrested?” she calls at him.

Jughead shakes his head lightly, not letting his eyes slide away from her for even a second. He watches the agent as she takes careful, yet certain steps towards him, as the tension from her muscles doesn’t seem to fade a bit and the determination only intensifies.

“It is quite funny,” Jughead says as he carefully moves his hand closer to his mask.

“Yes? What about it?” she challenges him.

“That of course, of all the people you have brought with you, it would be you who arrested me, agent,” Jughead chuckles.

He can pinpoint the moment Betty realises the meaning behind his words exactly with ease; her whole body freezes and a gasp tumbles of her lips. A tremble runs through her arms and then, the barrel of her gun is no longer aiming at his chest, but rather at the ground and Jughead notes that it should be a bit disturbing how quickly she has let down her defences. He could easily be crossing her, he is a criminal after all…

But, the idea to reach for the gun that’s strapped to his side doesn’t even occur to him. He just reaches for his mask and pulls it down with one swift motion.

Betty stares at him for a second, with her mouth open slightly agape and pupils blown wide out, before shaking her head. “What are you still doing, standing here? Go!”

Jughead doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry - so he does neither and just gently shakes his head. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can!” Betty argues. “Just get the fuck out of here before I’ll be forced to do something both of us will regret.”

He laughs at this, or more like lightly chuckles. Of course she would try to get him out of this mess, of course. But he simply can’t keep running, especially not when his freedom had already been taken away.

“C’mon, love,” he says as he steps towards Betty, “you know what needs to be done.”

Betty stares at him and Jughead stares back, searching her face for any hint that she understands. There are still noises coming from the general direction of where he has left the Serpents, but they don’t bother him - no, it feels like him and Betty are stuck in their own bubble, isolated away from the reality. The time doesn’t seem to pass the same way here, if the slowness of their movements is anything to go by. 

Her eyes don’t blink but drag, her chest doesn’t rise and collapse frantically as it should but rather barely moves a inch at a time, not showing any signs of fear or panic. Jughead’s eyes find hers once again and even in the dimly lit corridor, with a handful of feet of space still between them, he can make out the greens that bare into him, with intensity, with care, with - dare he say - _affection_.

His knees want to buckle, his throat wants to close up mid-inhale, his cheeks want to fire up, but he doesn’t - he can’t - let that happen. He clears his throat before speaking, but his voice still sounds gravely and choked. “There isn’t any other option,” he whispers.

Betty shakes her head. “There always is other option!” she argues quickly. “Just leave! Nobody needs to know you were here.”

Jughead doesn’t say anything, just takes a step forward, and then another and another, until he is standing close enough to her that if he reached out, he could caress her cheek, that if he bowed slightly forward, he could press his lips to her forehead. She is close; closer than ever before, even though he has touched her already weeks before, in museum as he whispered random facts about art into her ear, listening and getting absolutely lost in the way her laughter echoed in the exhibition room, sounding like the most beautiful symphony.

This time, _this closeness_ , however feels different. 

Maybe, it has something to do with the intensity that swims in their eyes; unflinching and searching, drinking the other person’s soul in as if this was the last opportunity they had. Maybe, it has something to do with the juxtaposition of the two of them - everything from the gun that still lingers in Betty’s hand and her bulletproof vest decorated with three huge white letters, to Jughead’s all-black assemble, gloves, mask and everything, along with his family history, his own reputation and the reason why he is here tonight. Or maybe, it has something to do with the way their breaths synchronise as they wait with anticipation for somebody to take the first step, to do what they both know needs to be done.

In a split moment of weakness, Jughead’s eyes slide down to Betty’s lips and linger there, focusing on the way they part lightly as she breathes, on the way they almost tremble. He wants to run his finger along them softly, fairy-light touch, a ghost, a promise of what might be; he wants to press his finger down against them and then drag it, fast and strong, and watch as the lip changes colour under his touch, watch as it would trail behind, follow without a question. 

And he also wants to lean in and press his own lips against hers, to steal a small taste of the forbidden fruit.

He shouldn’t, he can’t; so, reluctantly, he forces his eyes back up to catch Betty’s, only to find her gaze fixed on his own lips.

“Betty,” he says, or rather he breathes out, because that’s how her name feels - like air, the air he needs to exist - and now, once that it has left his throat, an anxious tremble fills it space. 

Betty’s eyes fall closed and the same tremble that has settled in his throat seems to run along her whole body. She breathes out and once again, Jughead is drawn to her mouth, to her lips-

“Kiss me,” Betty whispers.

Jughead stops, mid-inhale, mid-move, mid-thought; he stops and a part of him doesn’t want to start again. A part of him would be content to stay there, frozen in time, forever, as long as it would be this close to Betty, blissful in the presence of an angel. A part of him wishes that those two words, _kiss me_ , whispered in a voice that is so sweet it might as well have been laced in honey, would be the last two words he hears, ringing in his ears until the final days of his life. And a part of him desperately wants to take her up on that offer; wants grab her face in his palms and pull her entire body towards him; wants to push her against the nearest wall so she could feel the intensity of his feelings; wants to kiss her senseless, until both of them run out of the air and reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this.

But the loud voices coming from behind the corner remind him of the cruel reality and so, in an attempt to push the inevitable a few seconds further, in an attempt to keep this bubble of theirs unpopped for another precious moment, he leans forward, all the way until his mouth is mere millimeters from Betty’s ear, his lips softly grazing the skin of her cheek.

“I can’t,” he says. _Not now, not with our jobs hanging above our necks like swords, not after all of the screw-ups and messes I have caused,_ he thinks. _Not after I have let you down and have yet to apologise; not when we’re both being stupid, definitely running high on adrenaline from the heist._

His lips graze her cheek once more and Betty shudders under their caress, reaching up, pushing herself to her tiptoes to get closer, to feel more.

“Not yet,” he mutters into her skin, the promise barely more than a than a vibration on her skin.

Saltiness fills his mouth as a solitary tear runs down Betty’s cheek and Jughead is pretty sure he can hear both of their hearts break a bit as he takes a step back.

Betty’s cheek twinkles in the soft light, both the wet line left behind by the stray tear and the aftermath of his lips pressing against her skin and Jughead finds himself enamoured by the sight; a surprising wave of inspiration completely overtakes him, his fingers itching for a brush and his thoughts screaming: _paint her, immortalise the vulnerability and the beauty of the goddess in front of you._

But there is no canvas anywhere near, not even a scrap of paper and pencil - so, he just stares and stares, praying that he will be able to burn every single detail into his memory, that he will be able to recall this moment later.

And for a moment, he wonders: _what is the point of that? It’s not like you’re ever going to be able to replicate this ethereal beauty, this breathtaking sight?_

But then Betty’s mouth tugs slightly upwards and Jughead’s mind immediately clears of any insecurities or doubts - there’s no way he will ever forget this moment.

He slowly lifts his hands up and towards Betty, extending them with an invitation. There isn’t hesitation or uncertainty to the movement - no, he has made peace with his destiny quite a while ago. After all, it would be foolish to get into a profession like this without understanding the risks that come with the job; it would be foolish to think that he could do this forever and would never get caught. Of course, that was the dream; but sadly, the dreams rarely become reality.

“Why?” Betty asks him, a tremble in her voice evident even though she tries to hide it.

Jughead isn’t sure at what the question is supposed to be aimed - why can’t he kiss her now, why is he asking her to do this, or maybe why did they have to meet like this, on opposite sides of line that definitely should not be crossed. At the end, it doesn’t really matter; or maybe it does and it is just too painful to unpack any of those answers.

He doesn’t answer, instead just nudges her, his hands gently pushing her arm, moving it towards the side of her hip. Her palm hits the black case and Jughead watches how her fingers tremble as she pops the buttons open. The light catches on the silver of the handcuffs as she pulls them out and the part of Jughead that is his parents’ son, the part of Jughead that has known nothing but criminal life the past few years, they both scream at him to _run_ , but he stays, rooted to the spot.

He stays as Betty locks them around his extended wrists, not even wincing as the cold metal touches and tightens around his skin. 

He stays as Betty recites him his rights, ignoring the urge to comfort and hug her every time her voice trips over words and tears threaten to spill out of her eyes.

He only moves once Betty moves; once her soft fingers curl around his wrist, just between the silver cuff and the hem of his glove and the only thought that burns in Jughead’s mind is that he should have taken his gloves off as well; wishing to feel Betty’s skin directly against his, wishing that her hand would slip into his as she pulls him through the long hallways.

Everything is kind of a blur after that - loud chatter of excited agents after a well-done mission mixes with the city that is just starting to wake up to a new day; the sky is turning from deep blue to orangish red, and the walls of the buildings appreciate the art piece that the sun has created in these early morning hours by copying it, by recreating it with the help of flashing neons of police cars.

Jughead gets lost in that view, not only because it is breathtaking and stunning, but also because otherwise he would end up staring at Betty and he knows that he would not be able to tear his eyes away.

So, he stares at the sky and stares and stares, until the colours blur behind the window of a car he has been pushed into, until the whole world blurs in front of his eyes as the car speeds through the streets of the city.

He can’t help but remember another similar situation, one that might look the same to an untrained eye; Jughead in the back of a car that’s speeding through a city, onwards to a place that is everything but freedom.

He should be sad; he should be terrified and panicking.

But he isn’t.

Instead, there is this sense of peacefulness spreading across his body, running through his bloodstream and filling up every single of his cells. 

After all, this night has been a success - everything has gone according to the plan. 

He has always said, he would do anything in his power to get out of the role his parents have planned for him, to escape the destiny they call _inevitable_. There is no prison that’s scarier than taking over his parents’ business; not even the real one, with metal bars and maximum security.

And with that thought, he lets his head fall against a window and once more get lost in the fleeting city, drinking everything about it in while he still can.

**Author's Note:**

> for reference: [Athenaeum Portrait by Gilbert Stuart](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/87/Gilbert_Stuart_1796_portrait_of_WashingtonFXD.jpg/300px-Gilbert_Stuart_1796_portrait_of_WashingtonFXD.jpg)  
> for reference: [Federal Reserve Bank](https://live.staticflickr.com/8020/7376057254_39a07e5a2b_b.jpg)
> 
> well, i hope it was at least partially worth the wait - i cannot wait to hear your thoughts and opinions either here, in the comment section, or drop me a message/ask on my tumblr [catthecoder](www.catthecoder.tumblr.com) 💕 
> 
> p.s. seriously people, you gave me the strength to finally finish this part and i can't thank you enough for that. so, a very special thanks to everybody who ever sent me supportive messages, showed their excitement for the story, left behind beautiful comments or just screamed at me somewhere about their love for this universe. you're all stars and i love y'all so much
> 
> _edit: i saw a lot of you in comments asking and this isn’t the last part! there’s more coming, don’t worry, that note above was just me getting a bit emotional_


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